


Is Quaestio in Tentaculus

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tentacle Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet, fuck, flee. It’s sick, wrong, and twisted, but Dean can’t find the inner strength to call off the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Quaestio in Tentaculus

It’s sick.

It’s sick, wrong, and twisted, but Dean can’t find the inner strength to call off the game. He’s lost it all so many times before, and he can’t risk it again, even when this bubble of a lie hangs precariously on a thread that could very well kill him once it finally snaps. Time after time Dean tells himself ‘no more, this is the last time’, but time and time again, he calls for him—for _it_.

Dean’s often surprised that he hasn’t come out of the ordeal possessed, or infected, or however Leviathan spreads its oozy little tentacles of unfathomable chaos and destruction. Hell, he’s surprised the creature has kept its end of the bargain this long.

Meet, fuck, flee. Come morning, the hunt is back on track. Dean is a morsel, and Leviathan—trapped behind the form of the angel—is the apex predator.

But now they stand on mutual ground, a truce zone, on the damp floor of an abandoned warehouse somewhere in Wyoming. The night always starts the same, with Dean punching the walls of a motel room, yelling and cussing, calling an angel who can hear him but cannot answer. And then it’s there, standing outside Dean’s door in a rumpled suit and trenchcoat, but there’s nothing in his eyes, and cruelty in his smile.

The hardest part comes with the reassurances that this is mutually consensual. _“Oooh, the angel? He wants it, Dean, of course he does. He longs for it, screams and scratches to be let free to claim you himself. He calls Us a monster, but truly, We only give him what he was too cowardly to take.”_

Dean argues. He always calls Leviathan a lying scumbag, but in the end all it takes is one pheromone drenched kiss to get Dean falling to his knees, subdued but not shameless. 

All Dean knows is hunger and thirst born from his desire to take Castiel to bed—and that’s another lie he likes to tell himself. Bullshit, considering Dean has more self-control than that. Yes, he did long for the blue eyes that stared for longer than was proper, and the elegant hands that fleetingly touched his shoulder in moments of peril. Yes, he failed to outright proposition Castiel when he had the chance, buried his intentions under the pretense of his secrecy and seemingly detached behavior during Heaven’s civil war. And lastly, yes, Dean was a coward, because he’s opened his legs for the monster inside his friend, instead of coming to terms and talking about ‘feelings’.

Lips stretched thin around Castiel’s cock, and Dean moans and bucks into nothing, desperate for friction. The skin beneath his clothes burns intoxicatingly, and the need for relief borders on agonizing as he’s taunted by the steady drip of Castiel’s— _Leviathan’s_ —pre-come. Each drop tastes sweet and ardent, sizzling on his tongue as he swipes it against the tip.

Long fingers thread Dean’s hair, gripping it tight and tugging harshly whenever it wants more—more suction, more saliva, more tongue, and more teeth. Dean struggles to not gag while giving out his best performance, but it’s all for not, because it may be Castiel’s vessel, but this creature is far more than a lesser angel. Physical restraints mean nothing to it, and it is by no means tethered to the limits of a human form.

Dean chokes when Leviathan thrusts into his mouth, fucking his face with controlled ferocity. The creature hisses and groans, digs its nails into Dean’s scalp before it pulls him away and up to his feet. Dean goes with the manhandling, bends over the crates when the creature plasters itself along his back in a mocking embrace. “You are so pretty like this, my boy. Look at you, simply divine and decadent and just begging to be fucked. Hm? Is that what you want? What you need? You can tell Us, Dean. We promise not to tell.”

Clammy hands slide up underneath Dean’s shirt, nails lightly scratching as they make their way back down. Fingers snag at Dean’s jeans, and it quickly unbuttons them, pushing them down past his thighs.

“Oh, you should hear the angel in here,” Leviathan says, tipping his head back and licking its lips sultrily. “His lust slices through Us; his hunger palpable and delicious and sacrilegious. How interesting a parasite is he…”

Dean looks away, focuses on the shattered window above him when Leviathan’s hands caress their way up his thighs, reverent and possessive. “Speak to Us, Dean. Let Us bask in your spineless threats.”

The groan that escapes Dean is unbidden when something slick slips between his rear cheeks, teasing and pressing, sliding downward to wrap around his scrotum. He pants, fighting the urge to squirm for more. This is wrong; this is perhaps the sickest part of it all but Dean can’t really stop the creature once it begins to dish out its own form of pleasurable torture. There are warm, wet swipes, not unlike the tip of a tongue, against the tight ring of muscle of his hole, teasing and purposeful.

“Oh—God…” Dean gasps out, stretching himself out over the crate, hands gripping onto the ledge for support.

Strong hands splay against his pectorals, Leviathan’s chest molding to his back as the tiny tongues continue to flick at his hole and balls, and another slips up Dean’s thighs to wrap around his cock. Dean can’t see them, but he pictures them like tiny vines drenched in viscous liquid, gently alternating between squeezing and loosening his sensitive bits. 

The one around his cock flicks at his tip, causing Dean to spasm and cry out, his body jerking in the arms of Castiel’s vessel. Leviathan is whispering in his ear, hissing promises of more when the wet prodding against his hole finally breaches the tight muscle. The voice is but a low rasp, and despite the circumstances, it’s still Castiel’s grave timbre, so Dean calls out for him.

“C-Cas… fucking—shit! Come on, come on…”

And then there’s more; so many of them wrapping around his legs and middle, three or four fucking into him, opening him and slickening him up.

“God! God—yes! Oh, fuck—fuck _yesgiveittome_ —!”

“No, no, no. No God, not at all. Just Us, Our little dumpling,” Leviathan croons, pressing a kiss to the side of Dean’s face.

Dean braces himself when the tentacles slip out, the body over his back shifting effortlessly so that the blunt tip of Leviathan’s cock nudges against his slick, gaping hole. Then, he’s being unceremoniously manhandled onto his back. It wants him to watch, and Dean knows this.

Dark hair is a disarrayed wreck, some of the strands long enough to fall over crystalline blue eyes. Its grin is wide and ravenous as it stares down at Dean’s body with wicked intent. Black goo oozes from its left ear. The trenchcoat is gone, leaving behind a well-worn suit and unbuckled pants. It’s a mockery of what Dean really wants, but he can’t fight it when Leviathan leans down and catches his mouth in a kiss with too much tongue.

Fire lights up inside of Dean, all-consuming and awesome as the drug of the creature’s saliva makes him feverish with want. Awkwardly, Dean kicks off his pants and knocks his knees apart, inviting the creature to stake its claim on him.

The pheromones don’t let it hurt. It’s fully seated in a single push, filling Dean up so good he could burst. There’s no burn, no ache, just the satisfying sensation of being stuffed to the point of oblivion. Dean stretches out, wraps his legs around the lithe form above him, and urges him to move.

Patience long discarded, Leviathan moves at a brutal pace, with his hands holding onto Dean’s hips as he pistons in and out of the wet heat. It laughs breathlessly, blue eyes wild as they take in the wrecked and debauched body of the hunter sprawled on top of the crate.

Dean’s mouth is open in a constant silent moan as he stares down his body, looks at the thin tendril that teasingly flicks at the head of his cock, smearing pre-come as well as its own fluids along the shaft. He has no idea where those things are coming from, only that they come from the creature who looks like Castiel—the creature who is pounding into him, hard enough to bruise his ass, and probably crush his pelvis if Dean were to make a wrong move. But it feels good, so fucking good that Dean could weep from the pleasure.

Castiel’s cock is thick and long, and with the erratic shifting, it isn’t long until it jabs against Dean’s prostate, sending him into a howling frenzy that leaves his throat sore and raw. Sweat beads on his face, and his hands fumble against the wooden crate, but he’s grounded by the forceful push and pull of the creature fucking him within an inch of his life.

“We feel him,” Leviathan growls out, leaning over until its mouth dances along Dean’s jaw. “We always do.” Its face contorts with pleasure, and Dean’s head rolls back with his own. This is what Cas would look like if ever…— “It’s… heh, it’s contagious, this… feeling, he has for you. It’s a drug, so unlike anything the Father designed before your time.”

“S-Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but it’s barely heard above the creaking of the crate and the grunting of the creature above him.

“We’ve known Creation, and We’ve known Oblivion. The pleasures of the flesh begins and ends with Us devouring it, not _this_ ,” it says with a particularly harsh thrust. “But with you—We are willing. Isn’t that something, little creature? What the angel has done to Us, what he has done to himself…”

Dean’s hands land on Leviathan’s shoulders, torn between pushing away and pulling closer. “Shut up and fuck me!”

“We are, Dean, We will not stop. If left up to Us, We’d rip you open; devour your innards amidst Our throes of passion that blinds Us red. Such a frail thing as you can only offer so much.” Wrapping its arms around Dean, clenching his shoulders and pulling him down while Leviathan thrusts down, it moans out a laugh in rapturous delight. “But alas, We need the angel. And We have grown fond of the distorted look of ecstasy upon your face, Our lovely Adonis.”

Dean moves to grip the hairs on the back Leviathan’s head, and for a brief moment, it’s just Cas he sees—wide blue eyes, innocent and confused, but so adoring and all-knowing—but it’s all gone in a split second; the slip-up shoved deep down and the monster in control yet again. 

Dean kisses him, if only to lie to himself for a little bit longer.

Just like every other time, all it takes for the creature to come is a hard bite and a tight squeeze of his ass, and Dean is milking it through orgasm as Castiel’s face twists into something animalistic, eyes black and teeth bared. Leviathan rides it out, snapping its hips so hard Dean is sure he’ll break, but the gushing fluid inside of him distracts him of the possibilities. Come, ooze, Dean doesn’t know what the fuck it is, only that the squelch sounds obscene as the creature continues to fuck into him.

“Dean! Please, Dean, please… oh— _o-oh!_ ” The only reason Dean ever comes is due to foul play. The agitated words are spoken into his ear as if Castiel himself were whimpering from the high of his orgasm.

Dean grunts out Castiel’s name before going boneless against the crate, legs falling limp as the form on top of him moves away with a satisfied smile. It’s mated, and in a couple of hours, Dean and his brother would be back on top of the menu.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hisses, fumbling to the floor and doing up his pants. He’s soaked, slime sticking to his thighs and hole clenching where it was left vacant and in need of more. “Give him back.”

Leviathan shrugs the trenchcoat back on, his grin toothy as he grabs hold of Dean’s jaw. “We like it here. He’s Ours, as are you.” Dean’s jaw clenches when Leviathan moves in, and licks at the seam of his lips. “We still run the show, and until you are ready to flip the tables, I suggest you play nice.”

“I’ll find a way to gank you, just you watch.”

“And then what? Hm? Tell me, Dean. Do you think the angel will satisfy you like We do?” The creature lets go of him and takes a step back, holding its head high with a sense of pride that makes Dean’s stomach churn.

Leaning against the crate, too sore to stand on his own, Dean smirks derisively. “To be honest, I don’t think a hundred creepy-ass tongues will ever do Cas’ _staring_ justice. So you can go ahead and get off your high horse.”

Fixing the blue tie, Leviathan tips his head with a cocky grin. “Maybe, but it isn’t his staring that’s been getting you off, dumpling.” And with a lick of his lips, the creature saunters out of the warehouse, enveloped in both rain and darkness.

One day, Dean swears, one day he’ll get his angel back.


End file.
